


It's Not The Truth (When You Say, "I'm Fine")

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, just a scene in the kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers both suffer from the nightmares of their past, present, and future. During the nights and early mornings, they find one another in the kitchen, and grow to find comfort in each other. After all, it's a beautiful thing to heal someone else, and yourself along the way.alternatively titled, "If You Can't Sleep, Go Down To The Kitchen And Get Yourself A Glass Of Milk" in my head.





	It's Not The Truth (When You Say, "I'm Fine")

**Author's Note:**

> Do I struggle from PTSD, anxiety, depression, or another mental disorder? Nope. These characters are written with canonical knowledge from the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, particularly scenes depicting evidence of the mental disorders brought into this fic, as well as research and second hand experience pertaining to anything discussed or written about in this story. If you think I've said something rude, inaccurate, or simply unrealistic, let me know in the comments section below, I'd really appreciate any help! 
> 
> Title from the song "Break My Heart Again", by FINNEAS

Dreams of lust that dissolve into nightmares of a dark cave, lit with only sparks of electricity and torchlight are what fill Tony Stark’s nights these days.  
  
Kisses, passionate, deep, urging him onwards, turn to water filling his nose and blocking his airway until he wakes, choking. Fingers tracing his body, down, down, down, leaving nothing but pleasure, turn to pain barreling through his chest, sharp and cutting. Agonizing.

* * *

After Steve’s arousal fades into confusing loneliness, into being trapped in the darkness, he’s falling faster and faster.

He drowns, every single night, in the icy cold of the frozen tundra, as water leaks and drips through the crevices and cracks into his plane. As he grows cold, frozen all over. Cold and unfeeling and robbed of the parts of himself he didn’t know he could lose. Robbed of emotion.

* * *

In their dreams, at least in the beginning, they are together.

But separately, they awaken.  
  
Separately, they stumble to the communal kitchen.

Together, they seek refuge from their nightmares.

* * *

Steve, in a threadbare t-shirt and sweats, barefoot, is shivering. Air fills his lungs but he can barely register the oxygen, too busy clenching and unclenching his fists as blood pounds its suffocating beat in his ears. He’s trying oh so desperately to _breathe._

Tony with his AC / DC concert shirt layered over a black long sleeve, both dirty and unwashed after many days of use, along with faded black jeans. Sweaty, his mind is running too many miles per minute, and he’s begging himself to just _slow down._

Everything is fine, they tell themselves, each night they meet in the kitchen disheveled and exhausted, walls brought down by their deepest fears and traumas. In that moment of gritty reality, they’re all too honest with themselves and each other.

_I’m not crazy_, Tony insists to himself, his words thought in vain as he pours a cup of coffee. The pot is full and still warm, previously refilled by an equally insomia-plagued Avenger. No sugar, no cream, just black coffee. Smooth and pure and real.

_I’m not weak anymore_, Steve wants to shout, to scream into the near-silence of the tower. He sits down at the kitchen counter, picks an orange from the fruit bowl. Fingernails dig into the textured peel, and he tears it open like tissue paper.

It’s a scene of truly companionable suffering. Knowing that the other feels the same amount of unfiltered dread, panic, and exhaustion. Neither of them will placate the other with false words, will never say “it’ll be alright”. They know that the sentiment, while kindly mean, is useless.  
  
They gather together, Tony with his coffee, eye bags growing puffier every moment, Steve with his neatly peeled orange, now being pulled apart into perfect equal slices. The tranquility of their unspoken acknowledgement of each other is truly powerful.

“Was it the usual for you?” Steve finally asks, breaking the waiting silence with his quiet, measured words.

Tony thinks to himself, before answering, that Steve really doesn’t have any idea what the ‘usual’ is for him. He thinks to himself that Steve cannot, will not, ever know he dreams of the pair of them together, so clearly in love before his fantasies are shattered by the nightmares that crash into his subconscious, tear at his sanity. Before his resting mind plunges him into pain and fear, there is always Steve. The press of his warm lips on Tony’s. Fingertips brushing lightly across his body.

“The usual, yeah.”

Steve nods. Every night, after the dreams he can’t speak of, the wants that he knows he can’t yearn for and should never be met. His ‘usual’ began with skin against skin, lips on necks and collarbones, nipping and leaving bruise after bruise atop tanned skin.

Yet his lustful dreams of Tony always turn to the icy darkness, to cold seeping into every inch of him. As the deep freeze settles into his soul and his brain shuts down, an icy claw clutches tightly around his heart.

He doesn’t talk about those flights of fancy, of filthy kisses and filthier sex. Better to focus on the tortures of the past than that of the present. At least the past can’t really hurt him when he’s awake.

“Right,” Tony says, draining his cup of coffee and forcing himself to not look at the silhouette of Steve’s body against the window. Moonlight streams into the clean, minimalistic kitchen, captures the outline of his muscular frame. He shouldn’t look, it’s not fair to himself, not fair to Steve. _Control_, Tony thinks to himself. _Control. _

Unaware, as always, of Tony’s hidden discomfort, Steve rolls his shoulders, then his neck. Small cracks and snaps of joints popping ring out in the quiet. An impressive ripple of muscle as he stretches his neck, then straightens his back.

Tony’s infatuated, and he can’t see why Steve doesn’t notice.

“I’m drowning, every night.”  
  
The words are sudden, and Tony jolts at the sound of Steve’s voice. They make eye contact, and Steve continues.

“Every single night. No matter what I do, how I sleep, what drugs I take. Or what drugs even take effect on me, really. I’m _always_ drowning.”

Tony’s been told the basics, has known them ever since the first nights they’d met here. But the words come as a surprise, out of the blue like this. Never before has Steve told him about his dreams so directly. Abrupt, blunt, clean words with no humour or flowery language concealing Steve’s true emotions. No hiding behind a shield. Just Steve.

It’s possibly the most honest anyone’s ever been with Tony, though it is fair to say that Steve’s honest with everyone. At least when he can be.

But never like this.

He’s replying before he really knows what words are leaving his mouth.

“Drowning sounds like a blast. And by a blast, I mean a blast to the balls.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
Too crude, too sarcastic, too cold. And drowning is too much of a reminder for Tony, of waterboarding and being dunked into troughs of water, alone and afraid and helpless. Humbled for the first time in a long time. Water now reminds him of Howard and he can’t help but be a little terrified.

Steve isn’t offended by this statement, however. Once upon a time, he might have taken this as Tony’s brash, offensive, uncaring personality come to play. An example of how privileged the billionaire was, how childish, how disdainful.  
  
Now, he knows Tony and himself cope in different ways. Who is Steve to judge Tony for using humour to deflect?  
  
“I’ve certainly heard of worse ways to die, but drowning’s no walk in the park,” he replies mildly, fidgeting slightly with the remaining orange slices and peel.  
  
Tony nods, not wanting to say anything else about Steve’s demons, his skeletons in the closet. They’re his fears, after all. Who is Tony to judge him?  
  
He fills another cup of coffee, drinking it slower this time. Small sips, practically droplets as the steam wafts up from the mug.

Finally, to fill the silence, Tony speaks.  
  
“I’m not going to tell you what I’m thinking, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” He’s never liked silence. It’s prickly and somehow too loud despite the absolute quiet of the definition. He’d rather rudeness than silence, always, though he doesn’t know if Steve would think the same.  
  
He hates that he cares so much what Steve thinks.

Fortunately, Steve again takes no offence to his words. “I know. I was sharing, but of course you don’t have to. Never feel like you have to pay me back in honesty for saying something that I want to say to you, by the way. It’s enough that you listen.”  
  
_(It’s not like I’m telling you everything either.)_

“Yes, I definitely listen. Sometimes. Occasionally, I listen occasionally.” Why the hell is it so damn hard to not sound like an asshole? To just stop with the rambling and actually be serious for once? Tony thinks that, probably, if he had the answer to this question, life would be okay.

To his surprise, Steve lets out a little laugh. It’s quiet, slightly broken, and not exactly filled with glee, but it’s a laugh.  
  
“You can’t help that your mind runs a mile a minute, Tony. I don’t blame you.”

Tony shrugs back at him. “What can I say? Genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist.”  
  
The words come out too hollow, too empty. There’s no cockiness to back them up now, not anymore. No arrogance to the words that had once been just that.

Steve points to his coffee, the mug almost drained for the second time without Tony realizing. “You’ll never sleep again, with all of that in your system.”  
  
“Who said anything about going back to sleep, Captain? Might just give up on that for today, I’ve gone on with less for longer,” Tony replies, finishing the remainders of his drink and setting the mug down. He walks around the counter to sit on a bar stool to Steve’s right.

Popping another orange slice into his mouth, Steve wordlessly offers the last one to Tony.  
  
“Nah, I’m good. Oranges and coffee go funny together, I’m not a huge fan,” Tony says, refusing.

“If you say so,” Steve replies, eating the last slice himself. The orange peels are piled neatly, presumably to be dumped in the compost when they leave.

They allow themselves a few more peaceful minutes of silence, sitting in the warmth of the darkness. The sky outside is clear, a comforting shade of deep midnight blue, and only the barest wisps of cloud drift across.

He finds it in himself, at last, to speak.  
  
“You know,” Tony says, voice uncharacteristically quiet as though he doesn’t really want Steve to hear him, “sometimes they’re different.”

Steve turns to look at him. “What d’you mean?” he asks around a mouthful of orange.

“Nothing,” Tony says hastily, shaking his head. “I was just...” he lapses into silence, face unreadable in the dark of the kitchen. “Thinking out loud, I guess.”  
  
Steve nods, accepting this flimsy diversion. He’s never been one to pry. Instead, he prods the conversation onwards. “Do you ever want to just stay awake forever? Just so you don’t have to deal with them anymore?” he asks, referencing of course, their nightmares.

Tony laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and filled with misery. “You think I haven’t tried, Cap? My longest was a week and five days before I passed out. Literally passed out, right in the middle of a conversation with Pepper about me getting more sleep, ironically enough.”  
  
He fidgets slightly, wondering if he should continue. Steve probably didn’t want to hear about him being stupid and reckless and unhealthy as fuck. But he does, anyways, because who the fuck cares what Steve thinks?  
  
Tony does, of course, but he’s not going to let himself admit it. 

“I nearly died that day, although it might have had something to do with Pepper slapping me harder than I’ve been slapped for giving her such a scare.” He lets out a breath of laughter, remembering. “And you bet I’ve been slapped a lot.”

“A week and five-” Steve shakes his head, concerned but unable to hide how impressed he was. “That can’t be healthy, Tony. I’ll admit it’s pretty impressive, not sure if I could do that even with the serum boost, but it can’t be healthy.”  
  
Tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the marble countertop, Tony nods. “I don’t do that now, not anymore. Sometimes I’d like to, hell, sometimes I’d love to, but being Iron Man is hard even on a night of sleep only half plagued by nightmares. Sleep deprived, I’d fall out of the sky and kill myself.”  
  
“And I’m glad you make that choice,” Steve replies. “I hate for you to suffer, obviously, but it is good to hear that you care about your performance as part of the Avengers.”  
  
“Hate for you to suffer too, Capsicle,” Tony jokes flippantly in response. Because really, what else do you say to a man like Steve Rogers telling you in all legitimacy that he doesn’t want you to suffer?  
  
But Steve, to Tony’s horror, smiles at him and he sounds like he’s taking it _genuinely_ as he thanks Tony.

“That means a lot, Tony, coming from you. Thanks.”  
  
Tony blushes, thanking every deity out there that it isn’t visible, and mutters, “No need to get all sappy on me, Rogers. It was the only response I could make without being rude, and Pepper says that I’m not allowed to be rude to you anymore.”

“She doesn’t think I can take a little of the good old Tony Stark lack of tact?” Steve says, amused by Pepper’s impressive control over the genius.

“No, she thinks you’re ‘too precious’ for me to mistreat, and I should be kind to you on account of the fact that you’re ‘technically a grandpa’,” Tony snarks back, making exaggerated air quotes so they were visible in the dark.

Steve laughs, a warm sound in the quiet of the kitchen, and smiles, though even his bright white smile goes unnoticed in the darkness. “I am technically a grandpa, even though I don’t feel like it, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m precious.”

“Come off it Rogers, you get even blushier than Bruce when I talk about kissing people who I’m not married to, and practically turn into a red ball of embarrassment when I talk about having sex with them - god forbid. You used to actually leave the room whenever one of my hookups made their way down to the kitchen in the mornings, don’t tell me you’re not the damn definition of precious,” Tony replies, watching Steve shift in the darkness, knowing he was probably turning bright red as Tony spoke.

“I don’t-”

“And whenever I talk about running my hand down some guy’s chest, or sucking on some pretty lady’s neck, or grabbing an ass, or-”

Steve can feel his face turning a sinful red, and he knows he’s blushing so hard it’s like his whole head’s heating up. Damn Tony with his dirty words and dirty tongue.

“Language,” he says weakly, the only thing he can bring himself to say.

“Cap, I just said ass, for fuck’s sakes-”

“Language!”

Tony snorts, childish and amused. “Okay, that one I’ll give it to you.”

Steve feels like he’s lost control of his whole body, listening to Tony laugh and joke as they sit together, alone in the dark. He feels like there’s a pull, a weight, dragging him towards Tony. Closer, _closer-_

Tony runs a hand through his hair, fidgeting and trying to think how sweet it would be, how delicious, to do all those things he’d mentioned to Steve with him, to kiss him fucking dizzy until they both forgot their own names and their knees trembled. To be fucked into the ground and six feet under by those gorgeous muscles, that cock that he was all too sure would’ve been enlarged along with the rest of him post-serum.

The clock strikes four and they both jump, startled by the noise, then laugh nervously.

_Kiss him._

Tony jerks at the though, at the impulse that was all too close to becoming a reality.

_Kiss him._

Steve nearly pulls away right then and there to prevent his sinful desires from dragging him down to hell.

_LEAN FORWARD AND KISS HIM._

And suddenly everything’s too much.

Everything’s too much and there’s so much time and not enough.

It’s now or never and yet they have no need to rush.

It’s an eternity of time and yet they need nothing but each other close by.

Tunnel vision, spiralling in on that shadowy figure of the other.

Hands reaching out to pull Tony close, onto Steve’s lap.

Arms wrapping around a muscular torso as Tony clings tighter, tilts his chin up.

When they kiss at last, Tony straddling Steve’s body in the kitchen, bathed in moonlight, it’s _good_.

It’s both perfect and not, their bodies slotting against each other easily but their lips meeting with little to no grace. It’s both magical and all too natural, lips tingling but hearts feeling nothing but the sensation of _finally._

* * *

And for that night?

(Not all nights, it’s never all nights.)

(After all, the kiss never breaks the curse in real life.)

But for that night, everything is just the tiniest bit better.

And perhaps it will continue to become more so.

**Author's Note:**

> look i know i said i was gonna post something longer. this also isn't it. i'm sorry, i need to stop making promises because i get caught up with short side fics and this happens. 
> 
> also if there are any egregiously horrific typos, let me know so i can fix them. every now and then i reread one of my older fics and cry because my blind ass missed a comma or some shit and i'd like to stop doing that :')
> 
> thanks for sticking around, if you've read something of mine before. if not, thank you for reading! leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed, and i'll love you forever.


End file.
